


I felt the earth move in my hand

by mahons_ondine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6321853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/pseuds/mahons_ondine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Six bloody months of undercover work? Was it so dreadfully boring that you couldn’t bear it? Was it too horrible to imagine six months of being James-fucking-Bond? You couldn’t suffer through that so that you could come home to me?” </p><p>“I wasn’t.”</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“I wasn’t coming home to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I felt the earth move in my hand

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the Roberta Flack song "The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face".

The car ride is interminable.  Before they’re even moving John makes his plans blinding clear.

“The house first, then Baker Street. “

Mycroft nods his ascent.  Mary tries to argue, but quickly thinks better of it.  And Sherlock, Sherlock stares out the window with that hateful dreamy look on his face.  John seethes. 

John is shaking with anger by the time they arrive at 221B.  His nibs practically prances off, and John grits his teeth, intending to follow him, but he’s stopped by a firm hand on his wrist. 

“Please John. You said you’d take care of him.”

“I fully intend to,” he growls, wrenching his arm from Mycroft’s grasp. 

Sherlock is hanging up his coat when John bounds up the stairs, but he drops it, going very still, when the smaller man slams him against the wall. 

“What in the bloody hell was that Sherlock?”

“I told you,” he sighs.  “Moriarty was—“

“We aren’t talking about Moriarty right now.  We are talking about you.  We are talking about you, and the drugs and the goddamn _list_ as long as my arm. We are talking about what you were trying to do.”

“Oh John don’t be boring,” he groans, slumping against the wall with his eyes closed. 

It only makes John angrier.  He knows it shouldn’t.  He knows Sherlock well enough now to know avoidance when he sees it, and it should give him pause, but it doesn’t.  It should give him pause because he knows better—he knows that the man in front of him has a great big heart beating in his chest—but he also knows that people don’t really change.  And there’s nothing Sherlock seems to find less boring than the drugs. 

“You find this boring, do you?”

Sherlock hums in response. 

“You found six months of undercover work so very boring that you tried to kill yourself?”

And that at least gets Sherlock’s attention, because he freezes, barely breathing, and opens his eyes into slits. 

“Didn’t think I’d catch that?  I’m a bloody doctor, and I know you don’t think very highly of my skills, but I’m not an idiot.  I know a suicide attempt when I see one.”

“It wasn’t—“

“Shut up shut up shut up… don’t you think you already had your chance? You wasted your chance on the needle and now it’s my turn to talk!” he punctuates his words with hard shakes, and Sherlock is like a ragdoll in his arms then, lolling back against the wall, taking the teeth chattering beating.

“Alright,” Sherlock whispers.

“You don’t get to do that to me,” he hisses, he’s panting now and his words are sharp, and staccato, hitting Sherlock like physical blows. “You don’t get to kill yourself.  Not again.  I lived through it once and once was enough.  And over what? Six bloody months of undercover work? Was it so dreadfully boring that you couldn’t bear it? Was it too horrible to imagine six months of being James-fucking-Bond? You couldn’t suffer through that so that you could come home to me?”

“I wasn’t.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t coming home to you.”

And with that he shoves John off of him, and stiffly walks to the couch. 

John winces. 

“You told me to go back to Mary.  You told me to leave. I was ready to stay.  I was going to stay.”

“Until the next girlfriend,” Sherlock chuckles bitterly.  “But that isn’t what I meant, John. You neither see nor observe sometimes.  I wasn’t coming home to you because I wasn’t coming back.”

“Mycroft said six months.”

“Until I died.  It was a suicide mission, John.  Mary knew, do you not talk to your wife?”

“Mary—What? A bloody suicide mission, and you didn’t say a word to me? And even if it was, even if it was supposed to be a suicide mission, you’re still supposed to try. You’re not supposed to commit suicide before you’re out of British air space,” he growls, stomping over to the couch and looming over Sherlock. 

And Sherlock? Sherlock looks small.  It’s amazing how young and fragile this big gawky man can look.  He’s gathered all of his limbs in on himself, and he has his arms wrapped tightly around his legs.  He doesn’t look up at John, instead he talks quietly to his knees, shoulders up around his ears. 

“I wasn’t coming home.  Six months was the longest estimate.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes—think of something!  I refuse to believe—No.  I just—No.  You would have thought of something.  You always have the last word. ”

Sherlock buries his hands in his hair and starts to tug, and John, he wants to stop him, but he’s furious still.  The anger is simmering in his gut, and he just can’t. So he throws himself on the couch beside Sherlock, and just watches. 

“I nearly didn’t get out last time, John,” he says finally.  “I only made it out because _Mycroft_ came for me.  No one was coming this time.  Do you get it? No one was coming.” 

“You can’t mean that.  You can’t.  You—Dammit you try.  ”

“You don’t understand.”

“Make me understand then.” 

“I couldn’t remember before.  I couldn’t remember.  And I needed to remember.  It’s ridiculous,” he chokes out a laugh.  “I’ve cleared whole rooms in my mind palace to make space for you, John Watson.  There’s a wing dedicated you.  I have rooms on your jumpers, on your tea, I catalogued your smiles.”

“I don’t—“

“No of course you don’t.” Sherlock is trembling now, his fingers white knuckled in his hair.  “I couldn’t remember your laugh.  I couldn’t remember the way your skin felt.  I could guess, of course, based on your age, how much sun exposure you get, and how much you work with your hands. I couldn’t feel it though.  And I couldn’t hear your laugh. And last time I thought I would give anything to be able to hear your laugh.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. I know now the last thing I would say before I die, and I know the last thing I would hear.  And I am not afraid to die. I know almost everything there is to know about death.  It will be like a reunion with a close friend.  But I didn’t want to die without your laughter in my ears and your skin against mine.  I didn’t want to be without you.”

John is frozen, watching the dearest man in all the world shake apart in front of him.  Sherlock is gasping, hunched over his knees.  He takes a breath, more like a sob, and John is sliding across the couch, leaning over to cup Sherlock’s cheek.  Sherlock makes a sound like a wounded animal, shuddering at the gentle touch.  And it breaks John’s heart.  It breaks him to hear Sherlock in pain, to feel the tremble of his fever hot skin, and the silken slide of tears over his knuckles.  But it also gives him hope. 

“You love me,” he whispers. 

“Brilliant, John. Did you just figure that out?”

“Yes, actually,” John huffs out.  “You’re always telling me I’m an idiot, aren’t you?”

Sherlock freezes, then slowly lifting his head he stares at John.  His face is pale, and his eyes are red and swollen, and he still he is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen.  And so John looks at him, takes him in with his eyes, and enjoys the face of the man he’s loved for so long.  And he doesn’t try to hide, for once.  He lets the pain, and affection, and love show on his face.  And he watches as Sherlock’s eyes flicker over his forehead, his eyes, his lips, disbelieving at first, and then with growing confidence. 

“You really didn’t know.”

“No.  I thought—you were married to your work, Sherlock.”

“That was five years ago. People change John.  People,” he pauses, swallowing hard. “People fall in love, John.  Sentiment changes everything.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“And you must know—“

“I know now.”

John laughs, stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, watching as Sherlock’s eyes drift shut and he leans into the touch.

“I think,” he chokes out. “I think I’m going to kiss you now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorts. 

“Excellent deduction, my dear Watson.” 

John grins, and leans over to taste Sherlock’s watery smile. 

It tastes like home. 


End file.
